High on the tan facade of the Maricopa County Superior Court tower in downtown Phoenix are etched in block capital letters: “The first duty of society is justice,” and for the vast majority of people gathered outside Wednesday, that’s exactly what Jodi Arias got.

A huge cheer went up with fist pumps at 1:50 p.m. when the guilty verdict filtered through the crowd. There was no announcement. News came instead from smart phones, social media accounts, live video feeds and open-phone lines with loved ones who were at home glued to their televisions.

A crowd of a few hundred filled the plaza in front of the courthouse. They nervously checked their phones. Few stood still. Some bounced on their feet.

“Five minutes!” one shouted, for her own benefit as much as her courthouse comrades, then, “Three minutes,” and then an eruption of noise.

But the noise didn’t happen all at once. It happened in waves as news spread. Just as the excitement had built in waves all morning, ever since word came out two hours earlier that a verdict had come in the four-month murder trial.

Helicopters fluttered overhead. Security teams put on Kevlar vests and meandered through the crowd. There were more TV crews than members of the public. At first.

Across the street a block of Madison Street filled up with television satellite trucks. More trucks set up a block away, and another a block from that, across from downtown Phoenix institution Tom’s Tavern, another. A media team set up on the forth level of the Luhrs Parking Center, anywhere to get a vantage.

Across the street Eduardo Haramina thought he’d seen it all before. He’d been selling hot dogs in Phoenix for four decades. Wednesday was special. There was still a line for Polish, German and Chili dogs at 3 p.m.

“It’s been excellent,” he said in his singsong native Argentine accent.

“In this cart, the only time I saw so much excitement was when Evan Mecham was on trial in the 80’s,” said the man better known as Ed the Hotdogger of the disgraced former Arizona governor. “That was a circus too.”

Emotions rose early

Emotions started building on the plaza at 11:30. Some came because they’d been there every day since it all began. They were invested. They’d made friends there. They’d gotten to know and feel deeply for the family of the victim, Travis Alexander.

Some said they’d been drawn by star power. The cable news crews, national and local household names were there.

The Ballards of Phoenix came for that, for history and because they just couldn’t find a better story on reality TV or in crime-and-punishment dramas. They’d been at the court Tuesday and Wednesday.

“It’s like a good book. You read the chapter and you like it, so you can’t put it down,” said Ron Ballard, 70. “And at first I was sucked in by Jodi. I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”

He and his wife, Sue, was swept up in the celebrity. Just being interviewed was a thrill, they said.

“Sure, I’m star struck, to be honest,’ said Sue Ballard, of Phoenix. She and her retired husband, who’s in a portable chair, have watched the trial every day on television, sometimes twice when they recorded it.

“I can’t think of a better place to be,” said Sue Ballard, 69. Ron Ballard added: “It reminds me of Hollywood. There are kooky people and nice-looking people and it’s exciting.”

Some came to be seen.

“I’m here,” read the handwritten paper sign held by Gretchen Lebron, a 26-year-old law student downtown, who came on her lunch break.

“I think it’s historic. Who doesn’t want to be seen? It takes the drab out of everyday life.”

Most came for justice.

Majica Walker, 35, drove up from Tucson with her six-month old daughter Scarlett. Waiting under a tree, she said she was nervous. She seemed very even-tempered.

“I want to push the button myself,” said the humanities student who admitted her grades slipped after she got riveted to the case on TV. “She’s a monster and it’s intriguing that she can take on a human form.”

After the verdict she said, “Arizona got it right. I’m relieved the system works for us.”

Fascination with the system

Some came from fascination with the legal system.

Donna Orosco, 61 of Phoenix, is writing a book about the murder of her brother in 1982. With her was her friend Larry Oliver, 62, of Phoenix, who’d once narrated a book on disc about a criminal case. They’d watched the Arias case unfold like a drama on television and had different views.

Orosco felt connected to Alexander’s family and was certain Arias would be found guilty of first degree murder. She felt an emotional sense of unfulfilled justice. Oliver was a self-described contrarion, thinking Arias was abused and just snapped, “like any of us can.”

The two rode down on a light rail train together and debated the case. It was their first day at the courthouse. They came on a hunch that the day for a verdict had come.

Through it all, people on other juries, wearing white ID stickers, wandered or waited in the crowd with looks of bewilderment. Some watched the crowd from the second and third floor windows of the courthouse.

A line of sheriff’s deputies kept the steps and doors open. There were other cases going too.

Nobody cared about them.

As the 1:30 p.m. announcement neared the crowd swelled and grew louder. It was a festive, nervous vibe. It had the feel of a big sports event just before game time.

Chants rippled through the crowd at the foot of the courthouse steps. “Justice for Travis,” they cheered. Most of the voices were women’s.

As the deadline passed a steady hush fell. It wasn’t silent, but it was quieter.

After the verdict came a palpable gush of relief, and with it tears. Tears of joy for some who’d been camped out so long they’d become part of the case.

“We did it! We did it! I’m so happy,” Mikal Anne Dillon, of Phoenix, said moments after the verdict, as she embraced her courtroom friends, tears streaming down her face. She’d been there every day and inside the courtroom every day except two.

Minutes later she said she was so happy for the victim’s family that she might not be able to cry. She was crying. She said she was headed to Tilted Kilt to “celebrate justice.”

Then came the hand-made signs.

“The defense had it all wrong. They were not defending Snow White. They were defending Pinnocchio!” one woman held high.

Elsie Leon, 60, of Phoenix made two signs the morning of the verdict and held them outside the courthouse. She drew a picture of a heart with the words “peace” and “Travis.” The other said, “Juan Martinez for Governor.”

This is the first time that Leon, a paralegal, had shown up at a trial with signs. She watched the drama unfold on television. She wanted to be at the courthouse on the day of the verdict, “because it was local, it was here.”

Not everyone celebrating

Not everybody felt that such excitement. In the crowd moments before the verdict was Antonio Zúñiga, a criminal defense lawyer.

“I brought my daughter to watch the circus.” he said. “It’s a non-story. There are a lot more important verdicts being handed down today. People are here out of a sense of voyeurism. It has sex, sex and sex, and all those things you can draw snappy remarks from.”

Most of the crowd slowly wandered away after the news filtered out. But more than 100 stayed on to get a glimpse of the attorneys, of the family members, of anyone.

An hour after the verdict the warm spring sun, and a need to get back to real life, had sapped the crowd. Ron and Sue Ballard had found a shady spot under a palo verde tree, and reflected on the spectacle and on what it said about Phoenix, about the people assembled, about humanity.

“I think there’s a touch of it being like at a car wreck. We don’t want to look but we do,” he said and then admitted, pinching his thumb and forefinger to “a tiny little bit,” of shame that “I feel a bit morbid just being here.”

“Yesterday a woman fell down the steps and the crowd gathered around. It was the thing to see. It’s morbid,” he said, adding, “One lady made this a social gathering and made it her stage. She wanted to make it about her and not Jodi.”

The Ballards went home thinking they got to be a part of some excitement. Said Ron Ballard: “It’s national TV in Phoenix. How often can you say that?”

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